


Sif, Formerly the Golden-Haired

by Reflected_Skies



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Loki and Sif friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:04:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reflected_Skies/pseuds/Reflected_Skies
Summary: Sif is going to be a warrior. Loki helps.





	Sif, Formerly the Golden-Haired

“Spar with me.”

Loki paused in unlacing his leather breastplate and looked up. A girl stood across from him, a little taller than him, long blond hair in a braid down her back, wearing practice leathers too big and holding a short sword.

“You are Sif, yes? Why are you here, and not with the other girls?”

Sif snorted and rolled her eyes. “I am tired of that. I want to fight, truly fight, not take up arms only when my husband,” she nearly spat the word, “is too far away to be of any use.”

“But that is the way it is,” Loki argued. “The warriors go to battle, and the rest stay to guard Asgard. There is no dishonor in protecting your home.”

“I want to be the first line, not the last!”

Loki considered her. The other girls he knew seemed content to learn only the basics of fighting and focus on other pursuits. He had watched his mother, though, join in weapons practice, although he had never heard her express a desire to join her husband on the battlefield. 

“It is unseemly for a mother to leave her children to fight besides her husband,” Loki declared, “and no honorable warrior would wait at home for the enemy to come to him while his wife did battle in distant lands.” Sif looked angry, but Loki pointed his practice sword at her and spoke before she could object. “Therefore you must choose the sword over motherhood, and if you wed, it must be to one who is your equal with a blade.” He considered that, then amended, “Or who is no warrior at all, for many men wait at home when the army marches.”

Sif grinned. “I want neither husband nor child, only to fight.”

“Thor says he will never marry, but Mother says he’ll change his mind when he gets older. I say babies are dull and smell worse than an unmucked stable, but Father says it is different when they are your own.” He shrugged, unconcerned with a fate so distant, and retied his laces. “I will spar with you.”

For months the two practiced in secret. Loki was not a particularly good teacher, but Sif was eager to learn and tolerated his temper and sometimes contradictory instructions. They were not as stealthy as they liked to believe, but those who knew the two snuck away after lessons, sometimes raiding the kitchen beforehand and skipping meals to dine together in some hidden spot, assumed it was a young romance. They were far too young for it to be anything serious, but it was sweet and harmless. And if Sif’s mother thought of her cousin, who married the girl he had loved since childhood, and Sif’s father thought of nobles’ marriages arranged long in advance, who could blame them? And if Odin smiled and refrained from asking questions when Loki snuck in after dark, and if Frigga left orders for tarts and sweet rolls to be left near the door of the kitchen, where was the harm?

It was Fandral who followed them, curious and somewhat jealous of Loki’s seeming success with the fair Sif. He saw them spar, watched as Loki knocked her down and stood back as she stood (so unchivalrous, not to offer a hand! Although if he had seen their first lesson, when Loki tried to help Sif up only for her to yank him to the ground, he would have understood. Sif was not the only one learning). Fandral reported what he saw, and it was only their age that made it a joke rather than a scandal. (Loki and Sif would have preferred the scandal, tired of not being taken seriously.)

Loki was forbidden to take up a weapon outside his training with Tyr. Sif was forbidden to touch a weapon at all.

Three days later, a guard, struggling to keep from grinning, brought Loki and Sif, grimy and bruised, before Odin. “I have been practicing my throws,” Loki said, “as Tyr instructed.”

“That is not something to practice on a lady,” Odin scolded.

“I have been practicing with Sif.”

“I would rather learn how to take an opponent to the ground, or control my own fall to avoid injury, than be a lady.” Sif held her chin high and looked Odin in the eye. “I will be a warrior.”

Odin looked down at them. “That is not my decision to make. Loki, I lift the restrictions I put on you. Practice your fighting as you will. You are dismissed.”

The children bowed and thanked Odin, turned and solemnly walked out, but their giggles escaped before they reached the door, and plenty saw them running down the hall, laughing.

Sif’s parents were displeased, but as Odin had not only refused to ban Sif from fighting but given Loki indirect permission to train with her, and Sif made it clear she intended to continue as she had been, they reluctantly allowed her to attend arms training with the boys, hoping that the harder training, the disapproval, and the mocking—all things they had hoped to protect her from---would finally convince her to follow a more seemly path.

It may have happened that way, but Thor was friendly to all, and when Sif ducked below his guard to poke his belly, he declared her a worthy opponent. With Thor’s open approval, Sif’s determination to knock down any who stood between her and her goal, and Loki slyly punishing any he felt not sufficiently respectful of his pupil, the other children learned to hold their tongues, at least where the princes could hear.

Tyr encouraged the students and assistant instructors not to go easy on her, to make certain she understood what she was getting into, even though the boys played at war with no true concept of what war meant. The students, minus Thor and Loki, were cruel, in what little ways they could get away with, and the instructors harsh. Sif grit her teeth and kept her head up, training hard without complaint.

Loki found her one day after a training sessions, tears on her face and her hair, her long blond braid, in her hand, dangling limply. “What have you done?” he demanded, aghast. Sif, the golden haired, only just coming into womanhood but still considered one of the beauties of court, and she had severed her mother’s pride and joy. 

“They pull my hair. Every time. ‘Look for a weakness,’ Tyr says, ‘take every advantage’, and they go after my hair. Plenty of men have long hair and beards and none grab hold of their hair when they fight, but even when I tie my hair up under my helmet, they find a way.” She rubbed her hand over her face, wiping away tears. “Fandral put mud in it yesterday.” She glared at Loki, even though he had never once touched her hair. “So I cut it off.”

“Your mother is going to kill you.”

Sif stomped her foot. “I don’t care. I’m not going to be the beauty of the court. I’m not destined to marry well. I am a warrior! I hate my hair, I hate it! I’d rather shave it all off and be bald for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t do that,” Loki said, coming closer. “Keeping your head shaved is even more work. And it’s cold.” He took the braid from her and looked at it. “Your mother is going to kill you,” he repeated.

Sif sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t care.” She looked down. “Do I look terrible?”

“You would have to cut your face, not your hair, for that, and even then, it would take a lot of cuts.” Sif giggled and looked up, and Loki warmed to his theme. “Your hair is--was--your crowning glory, but you are glorious still without your golden crown.”

“I don’t want to be glorious,” she sneered, but her heart was not in it, and the flush in her cheeks seemed more blush then the ravages of tears.

“It is you, your warrior spirit, that makes you truly marvelous. The fools in the court flock to you like moths to a flame, and cannot understand how their dull wings become singed. They think they can contain your fire.” He grinned at her. “Burn them all.”

Sif snorted, hand over her mouth. “You are terrible,” she said. “And I don’t think moths flock.” She dropped her hand and grinned at him. “But otherwise, very nice.” Loki bowed. Sif took the braid from him and looked at it. “My head feels funny. Too light.”

Loki considered her, trying to understand. “You do not dislike your hair, just how everyone else sees you because of it?”

She shrugged. “I guess? I’d rather have dark hair, like you. Then I’d blend in but could still have it long and do stuff with it.” She glared at him. “Sometimes I like having flowers in my hair. It does not make me any less a warrior.”

“Of course not.” It seemed obvious to Loki, but there were plenty of fools in Asgard’s court. “I saw a spell to change your hair color.”

“Magic or dye, it’s not worth the trouble.”

Loki shook his head. “This one is permanent. It does require a sacrifice—all your old hair. But then, you are mostly there already.”

Sif bit her lip, considering, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Loki would have preferred to have more time to study the spell and prepare, but Sif’s braid was cut off now, and it seemed best to finish the job before her parents locked her up for the next decade. “We could just blame Fandral,” he suggested as they ducked into the library.

“I won’t let someone else take the blame for my decisions.”

“We’ll need to do something. The spell changes your hair’s color, not the speed it grows.”

Sif stared at the braid in her hand while Loki pulled books from the shelves, flipping through them quickly before returning them to their place. “Here it is,” he said at last. “I remembered it correctly. We can do this now, though we need supplies. My mother’s work room should have what we need.”

“Is that wise?” Sif asked as she followed him. They stopped at the door of the library and peered out to make certain there was no one in the hall.

“Of course. I am supposed to practice my magic there. Take my hand. It will make it easier to ensure we are unseen.” She grasped his hand and watched as a circle of green light extended from his middle over his entire body, down his arm and then over her as well. She felt nothing, but Loki tugged her down the hall and past several people without any concern that they might be noticed. They reached the queen’s work room without mishap and Loki pulled down two bowls and a variety of jars while Sif got a fire going in the brazier. Following the instructions in the book, Loki carefully poured a purple liquid into a silver bowl, then added a clear liquid and a yellowish powder and stirred it with a wooden rod. “We are ready,” Loki announced.

Sif sat on the floor and Loki wrapped a large cloth around her, Sif holding it closed in the front. Loki took a pair of scissors, dipped them in the silver bowl, and then cut the remainder of Sif’s hair as close to her scalp as he could. He then used his hands to smear the liquid over Sif’s head and dipped a knife into the remaining liquid, tilting the bowl to coat the blade. He carefully scrapped the knife across her skin.

“Have you done this before?” she asked, holding very still.

“No, but it is not a difficult spell.”

“I meant shaving.”

“Of course.” His voice was cold, a tone Sif knew meant he was insulted. Boys, she had noticed, were funny about shaving. She kept her tone light in hopes it would convince him no insult was meant. This was not the time to annoy Loki.

“That is good. I would hate to have a novice use me for practice.”

They were silent after that. Loki carefully shaved her head, then moved in front of her. Sif closed her eyes as he dipped his thumb in the liquid and smeared it across her eyebrows, following the gesture with the knife. “I think we should leave your lashes. They are dark enough.” Sif agreed, not wanting to learn if Loki’s hand was steady enough to take her lashes without hurting her. They carefully unwrapped the cloth from around Sif and tilted it over the second bowl, brushing every single hair into the bowl.

“Do you need the braid?”

“No, it was cut off before we began, so does not count as part of the sacrifice.” He sprinkled several powders into the bowl. “It needs something else. Something the color you want your hair to be.”

Sif looked around the room, at Loki’s dark hair, then down at herself. She giggled. “If I put in a scrap from my tunic, will I get blue hair?”

“I think so, but you would hardly be less conspicuous if you did.”

Sif thought for a moment, then pulled out her knife. “The leather wrapping the hilt. That’s the color I want.”

Loki used his knife to cut a piece free and added it to the bowl, which he then handed to Sif. He led her to the brazier and used tongs to drop a hot coal into the bowl. A bright flame sprung up and Sif wrinkled her nose at the smell, but her hands remained steady even as the smoke rose up and made her eyes sting. It burned quickly; within minutes nothing but ash was left. Loki poured what was left of the liquid in the silver bowl onto the ashes and mixed it together into a paste. He smeared it on her head and along her brow ridges. “It needs to sit for two hours, then you can wash it off with water. Just water, no soap.” He stepped back to look at her. The mixture was a dark gray, gritty and coarse. “You need a scarf.”

“My mother has some.”

Loki shook his head. “You’ll be seen before you can get home. Come on.”

Once again they scurried through the hall, invisible to others, this time to Frigga’s quarters. “Are you mad?” Sif demanded as Loki led her in and shut the door behind them.

“Mother will not mind if I borrow a scarf. Or two. I think if we use two, we can make it look like you have hair under the scarf.”

It took some experimentation, especially since they did not want to disturb the ashes drying on her scalp, but they managed to use one scarf to puff up the outer scarf enough to look like it was hiding hair and not a bald scalp. Sif pulled her braid free of her belt. “Can we pin this in place?”

Loki grinned. “Perfect!”

After several tries, Sif’s braid was attached to the scarf, draped over her shoulder to keep the weight from pulling the scarf. There were still dried ashes over her eyes, but by keeping her head down and avoiding well lit areas, Sif was confident she could make it home unnoticed. “I can draw my eyebrows on until they grow back. Mother will be pleased that I want to paint my face at all; she won’t question it.” She smiled and thanked Loki, then headed home while Loki snuck back to the work room to clean up. They had both missed dinner, but as there were still rumors about the two of them courting, Loki was confident their absence, while perhaps not passing unremarked, would not be questioned. Courting, he was learning, was a useful excuse. 

Sif’s new penchant for scarves was noticed, but most people thought that it was a becoming look, and hoped it was a sign she was beginning to care more for fashion than fighting. Her drawn-on eyebrows were noticed as well, and dismissed as an unfortunate experiment in grooming, and as her long braid was as it ever was, those who wondered if she was hiding something under her scarf were certain it was nothing too tragic.

When her hair started to grow in, she pulled Loki aside and showed him. “Brown,” she crowed, “My hair is brown! Thank you!” She hugged him tightly. “I cannot wait until it is long enough to show everyone.”

Loki pulled away and she stepped back. “How will you do it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Come to breakfast one morning without the scarf, I suppose.”

“It would be funny if you let someone pull your braid. You could scream like they had yanked out all your hair.”

Sif laughed. “That’s mean!”

“I’ll do it. I won’t feel guilty, and it is my magic. I should be part of the reveal.”

“Perhaps. I will think about it.”

She had decided to pull her scarf free at court, with Loki by her side, when Fandral changed her mind. He had been teasing her all week, insisting one so fair should not fight, mocking her for thinking she could hide beneath a length of fabric and everyone would forget her beauty. Her hair was still short, but long enough that her scalp was once again hidden and that covering her brows with powder to hide their new color was becoming a nuisance. Normally she hid her braid in one of her scarves when she took it off to spar, and was careful to leave her helmet on until she was alone. Remembering Loki’s suggestion, she pinned her braid to her helmet, a single pin that would not hold, and walked out onto the practice field with her braid bouncing against her back.

She spared first with Thor, and worried the whole time that the pin would come loose too soon. Her distraction meant it was a quick fight, and soon she was on the ground and Tyr calling the end of the match. She faced Fandral next, and he did what she had hoped. Given the opportunity to grab her braid for the first time in months, he could not resist, and she moved slightly slower, giving him the chance to get behind her, grab hold, and yank. There was a gasp from all the watchers and she shrieked, as if in pain, and whirled to face him. Fandral was pale, the braid hanging limply in his hand, and he stared at her with wide eyes. “I did not...I did not pull that hard. Sif, I am so sorry.”

Sif had not planned this far, not expected sincere remorse, and did not know how to respond. Loki solved that, though, laughing loudly and applauding. “Oh well done. I told you that was better than announcing it over breakfast.”

Tyr strode over. “Loki, what did you do?”

“I granted a maiden’s request. It is not my fault you are all so churlish that you made her hate her own appearance.”

Sif pulled off her helmet, revealing her short brown hair, and stood there, staring at Fandral because she could not look bear to look around and would not lower her gaze as if she were ashamed. She had thought it would be easy, that she would be triumphant, that there was nothing anyone could do so they would do nothing, but now she was not certain. What punishments did she face? How would the court would judge her? What would her mother say?

It was Thor who broke the silence, striding over to her and clapping her on the shoulder. “You have changed your hair color! It suits you.”

Sif smiled at him as Loki came up beside him. “The color looks well, though the style does not.”

“It is not long enough to have a style,” she retorted.

“You cut your hair?” Fandral waved the braid. “This was a joke?”

“You should not pull people’s hair. That is how a weakling fights.” Sif put her helmet back on. “Prove to me you are not a weakling.”

Fandral tossed the braid aside and lunged at her, and practice resumed.

Later, Loki and Sif were summoned to face Odin, Frigga on one side of him and Sif’s parents on the other. Her parents’ remonstrations were cut short when Frigga asked how it was possible she hid this from them, and Odin asked only if it had been Sif’s idea. 

“I cut off my braid myself,” she answered, “and I wanted him to cast the spell. I wanted to change my hair.”

“I see no wrong doing, and if this is the worst rash decision my son makes, I shall count myself fortunate,” Odin declared. 

And so Sif went home and put away her scarves. She still had much to do to prove herself as a warrior, but her commitment was no longer in doubt. Her dark hair did not catch the eye the way her golden locks had, and the young men of the court turned their attentions to maidens more receptive to their flattery, much to everyone's satisfaction.

Loki was given harder magic to study, since he clearly needed more challenges to keep him amused and out of trouble.

Fandral learned to leave his opponents’ hair alone.

END


End file.
